Riverboat (4th in the Vicksburg series)
by PollyVictorian
Summary: A sharp contrast for Scott between his old life of wealth and privilege and his new life as a soldier.


The sun was just appearing over the horizon as Scott emerged, yawning, from the freight shed by the railway depot where the soldiers of Company L had passed the night. Well, half the night anyway. It had been about 2.00am when the train which brought them from Indiana had pulled into Cairo and the men had tumbled thankfully out of the boxcars they had been travelling in for the past 36 hours. Grateful as they were for at least space enough to lie down, the floorboards of the shed hadn't made for comfortable sleeping and Scott was not the only one stretching cramped and aching muscles.

He blinked in the dawn light and gave another yawn. Early rising was one of the things he was struggling to get accustomed to in this new army life – he was sure his stomach would never get used to breakfast at sunup – and now after two days of travelling and two nights of little or no sleep, he wanted to go back to bed and he wanted a bed to go back to.

The men of the other companies were straggling out of the various buildings where they'd been housed in about as much comfort as Company L. The soldiers of the 83rd Indiana formed sleepy lines and followed their sergeants to a field on the outskirts of the town.

"Get a fire going, boys. I'll collect the rations," Dan Cassidy said. All around the field, campfires were springing to life as the men prepared to cook the army rations the sergeants were distributing. Dan returned with coffee, sugar, hardtack and the salt pork Scott had learned to call 'sowbelly'. Tice surveyed the stack of three-inch square hardtacks thoughtfully.  
>"Do you think if we fried these in the sowbelly fat they'd soften up?" he asked.<br>"They won't." Sergeant Stevenson, passing by, had heard Tice's suggestion. "Get used to that hardtack as it is, Private McRae," the regular army veteran advised him. "You'll be thankful enough for it in time to come, when we're on the march." Scott found that hard to believe; Tice also looked unconvinced.  
>"I'll try it with my ration, anyway," he said, "It'll kill the weevils, if nothing else."<p>

"Guess the sarge was right," said Tice glumly half an hour later as he tried without success to bite into the fried-up hardtack. "This is more solid than before."  
>"Looks like we'll have to get used to the flavor of weevils," Scott tried to sound sympathetic but he was grinning as hard as the other soldiers.<br>"I think they've got kind of an interesting taste, myself," Cal remarked as he shared his own hardtack with his hungry cousin.

Refreshed by the coffee and food, the soldiers of the 83rd made the most of the couple of hours of free time, some moving around to stretch still-cramped muscles, a few rolling up in their blankets to try to catch up on a little sleep. Scott, Tice, Cal and Dan lounged beside the fire, where the refilled coffee pot was bubbling a second time.  
>"Where are we headed from here, Corporal?" asked Cal. "Are we catching another train?"<br>"No, we're going downriver by steamboat, so I've been told," Dan replied.  
>"On one of the riverboats?" Tice's face brightened. "I've heard about them. I thought I'd have to wait till I'd made my fortune before I'd get a trip in one. Nice of Uncle Sam to pay our fares."<p>

Shortly after noon, the order came to fall into line. The regiment marched back through the town and out towards the river. There were gasps from the lines of soldiers as the expanse of muddy water came into view. For most of them, it was their first sight of the Mississippi.  
>"Whoo-ee! Just look at that!" The exclamation came from Rick Hardy.<br>"I didn't know rivers came that big," Cal said, open-mouthed.  
>"It's no wonder the Indians call it the Father of Waters," said Tice.<br>"You don't seem much impressed, Scott," Jed Lewis commented. "Don't tell me you're used to seeing water like this back East?"  
>"Well, there is a little thing there called the Atlantic Ocean," Dan Cassidy pointed out drily.<br>"That's so," agreed Scott with a grin, "but I've seen the Mississippi before, anyhow."  
>"Yeah?" said Tice. "When was that?"<br>"Visiting friends in St Louis. You remember Peter Galbraith, at college?"  
>"The one who drank all that French brandy at our birthday party?" Tice grinned. "Sure, I remember him. You and he were at school together, weren't you?"<br>"That's right. He has an uncle in St Louis who's a business associate of my grandfather's. Peter and I have visited him a couple of times.." Tice shook his head.  
>"Just goes to show, doesn't it. You should never assume anything. Here was I thinking you'd know nothing about the West and you've been further west than I have. I've never seen the Mississippi before. Say, have you been on one of these riverboats?"<br>"Yes, I have," Scott answered. "Peter's uncle has shares in one of the big steamboat companies. He took us on a trip once, to Cape Girardeau. That was the year before the war."

The soldiers marched on down the road to the wharf, where the steamboat was waiting. To Scott's delight, he recognized the _Lacotah_, the riverboat his friend's uncle had taken them on back in the summer of 1860. At least the soldiers would have comfortable accommodation now. He recalled the captain and Mr Galbraith proudly showing him and Peter over the boat. Justifiable pride, too; the _Lacotah_ was one of the most luxurious boats on the river and her cooks the equals of any in France. Now the men were marched onto the deck while the officers went below. The whistle sounded, the ropes were cast off and the steamboat commenced her journey downstream.

The November afternoon was cool but the sunshine made the riverboat's deck a pleasant place to be and the soldiers revelled in the open air after the long train journey in the boxcars. Dan pulled a bag of peppermints out of his knapsack.  
>"Been saving them," he grinned as he passed them around.<p>

Scott's spirits rose. Someone was singing 'John Brown's Body' further along the deck and men were joining in, occasionally even with the right words. There would be good food for supper and comfortable berths to sleep in tonight. He relaxed and gazed at the river bank passing by. There were no signs of war evident and this part of the journey was bringing back happy memories of his visits to St Louis. He wondered if the boat's captain would recognize him from that meeting over two years ago. Then, as had happened more than once since he'd enlisted, his thoughts jerked into the present reality: here he wasn't Scott Garrett, scion of a respected and influential family, he was Private Lancer, one of several hundred ordinary soldiers. The captain might never lay eyes on him and he had no right to claim the privilege of calling on the captain.

As the light started to fade, Scott kept an eye on Sergeant Stevenson, waiting for the order to go below. The soldiers wouldn't be kept on deck much longer, he thought; the evening chill was setting in. It was getting toward supper time, as well.

"Evening rations, men!" The sergeant's shout wasn't what Scott had been expecting. Dan and the other corporals went astern to collect another allocation of hardtack and sowbelly.  
>"How do we cook this, Corporal?" Scott asked as Dan handed him his share of the salt pork.<br>"We don't." Cassidy answered. "We eat it raw tonight."  
>"Don't we get some coffee?" asked Tice.<br>"No. Here's your evening beverage coming, gentlemen. Fill your canteens." A bucket of river water was passed to the group. Scott saw his own disgust mirrored on the faces of his comrades.  
>"Cheer up, boys, we can survive it for one night," Dan tried to rally their spirits, even though he looked as unhappy as his men as he surveyed their supper.<br>"You sure about that, Corporal?" Cal's question was only half rhetorical. Scott had his doubts about Corporal Cassidy's assertion himself but there was no help for it. What they had was what they had. He reminded himself that in some obscure way, his eating this meal was of service to his country, and dug in.

"Spread your blankets out, men." For the second time, Sergeant Stevenson's order took Scott by surprise.  
>"Aren't we going down to the cabins, Sergeant?" he asked.<br>"The officers are in the cabins, Private Lancer," the sergeant informed him, with an emphasis on the word 'officers'. Private Lancer got the message.  
>"Bunk in twos, it's warmer that way." Again the veteran NCO gave his advice and this time the new recruits acknowledged its good sense.<p>

As they spread one of their blankets out on the deck and arranged their knapsacks as pillows, Tice said to Scott,  
>"I just thought of something. I wonder if this boat is part of the company Peter's uncle owns?"<br>"Yes, it is, as a matter of fact," Scott told him.  
>"Hey, imagine if Peter had come along and enlisted with us. The owner's nephew would be camping out on deck. Think of that." Tice was chuckling. Scott gave a laugh, too, as they spread the second blanket over them and made themselves as comfortable as possible, but as he settled down beside his friend, the laugh turned into a wry smile, unseen in the gathering darkness.<p>

He hadn't given Tice the full details. Mr Galbraith was a major shareholder in the steamboat company, yes, but the controlling interest was held by Harlan Garrett, in trust for his grandson. Scott's grandmother's father had been one of the founders of the company. His shares had been left directly to his granddaughter, Scott's mother, and on her death they had passed to Scott, held in trust until he was 21. His grandfather had been keen for him to visit the Galbraiths in St Louis, to become familiar with the steamboats.  
>"They're your legacy, Scotty," he had said. "A very special legacy. You'll inherit the business I've built up one day, of course, but this comes through your dear grandmother." For a moment Harlan Garrett's voice had become uncharacteristically soft.<p>

At least he was following his grandfather's wishes in one thing, thought Scott. He was acquiring a close familiarity with this particular steamboat, alright. Private Lancer just wished the deck of his legacy wasn't quite so hard.


End file.
